


Convivial Congress

by jadebloods



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Flirting, Letters, Male Character of Color, Masturbation, Native American Character(s), accidentally thinking about your ex when you're about to come, background Kanen'tó:kon/Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, casual allusions to jerking off in written correspondence, flirting through doublespeak because you're part of a secret society, unconsummated attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He planted his feet firmly on the floor and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking with his shifting weight as he stretched his arms over his head, working out his muscles and gearing up for the last comfortable sleep he would have in a while, probably until New Orleans. Tomorrow he was meeting his father at Valley Forge, and presumably he'd meet up with the Aquila straight after. He wouldn't see a real bed again until he was with Aveline, so would have to make the most of this last leisurely night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convivial Congress

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between Aveline's visit to New England and Connor's final confrontation with Haytham, and assumes that Connor and Aveline had shared an off-screen awkward and sexually charged cuddle while she was there.

Dear Connor,

My mind still wears a steady groove in the rug of our remembered conversations, and my heart hasn't stopped rattling in its heavily decorated cage since I left New York. My chest feels tight, corseted ribs pressing painfully against my lungs and my heart whenever my mind wanders to the awakening I achieved with your assistance during our short time together.

I am referring to my parental quandary, of course, and any other speculation on your part is purely that-- speculation and nothing more. Perhaps you should see it fit to speculate further on the matter, as I imagine that familial treachery doesn't keep the body warm on those frigid northern nights, especially without a roaring fire in the hearth. Do with your speculative thoughts what you will, as I may be a businesswoman, but that is no business of mine.

Have I mentioned that I'm in the habit of buying out businesses that aren't mine?

To return to the subject of villainous relatives, I wanted to warn you that I believe the treachery of the company woman runs much deeper than originally thought. I have reason to believe that she has a cross to bear, if you catch my meaning, and I intend to take on the guise of carrying it for her. My febrile heart is heavy with this inevitability, but as my brother, both in shared creed and shared circumstance, I'm sure you are well acquainted with the feeling I describe. Do keep me informed of how you fare with your own paternal predicament.

Yours in brotherhood,  
Aveline Passereaux, 26 January 1778

P.S.-- Please send any return messages to this name and not the one I gave you before, as it will ensure that it reaches me at my business address.

 

Aveline--

I am sorry to hear about your troubled mind, but a worn rug gives far more comfort than no rug at all. Do not worry about me, I can find ways to keep myself warm without a fire. I hope you are doing the same.

You will do what is right when the time comes, I am sure of it. Trust your own hand. It is the only one you can count on, and it will not fail you.

My father and I are sharing the burden of his cross for the time being. It is not ideal, but I think it is the best way to a common goal, the end of a shared enemy. The confrontation we seek is just over the horizon, and we will probably greet it with the morning. 

It looks like our situations are more similar than they originally appeared.

Connor  
R.

 

Dearest Connor,

For a man of so few words, you are quite skilled at the art of conveying a great deal of meaning in brevity. I would have you know that I have no difficulty keeping myself warm, although the arrival of your letter saw the temperature in my office rise from its usually pleasant Nouvelle Orleans balmy disposition to a sweltering bayou heat, thick and palpable with the promise of news from a friend and brother. It was quite the event in an otherwise unremarkable day--although perhaps it is remarkable in its unremarkableness--but fear not. I have opened the windows, and it is beginning to return to normal in this stuffy warehouse.

My maternal malady has been resolved by my own hand, which still trembles upon recollection of the events. I would rather not recount them here, although perhaps you will get an ear full in the near future. It is a curious story, but I suppose curious stories are not all that rare, just usually held close to the chest. Mine is no different. Suffice to say, events transpired, and things are in transition. Business is good but fragile, and I am working hard to stabilize it. I hope the resolution of your entanglement with your father has a different end than my particular tale.

I would like to register a complaint before I end this letter. I have worn my memory rug quite threadbare, and I have a great need to dig my bare toes into a fresh one. I cannot travel in the near future, as this is a tenuous period for Nouvelle Orleans as a whole and for my business prospects in particular. However, if you have the time and the inclination, you could send me something by return ship. If now is not feasible, just tell me when you are available, and I will send a dingy to collect it and bring it to me.

Yours in both the dark and the light,  
Aveline Passereaux, 15 March 1778

 

Aveline--

You will get your rug, although not immediately. I cannot leave the homestead right now, but the Aquila sails for a southern location in a few months, and I with it. The return voyage could easily be amended to include a few extra port stops. I look forward to feeling this bayou heat for myself. It sounds unlike anything I have had a reason to experience until now.

Business with my father is sour. He is not a man of reason, and he continues to disappoint me. Sometimes I want to ask him how a man can stand for anything if he doesn't stand by his own word.

The best way to stop a hand from shaking is to put it flat on a surface. The second best way is to hold it in another. You should do the first one when you need and the second one when you are able. Your days and nights will become easier to bear, and I will help when I can.

It is hard for me to spare much time for writing letters, but I am very warm tonight. I hope you are well.

Connor  
R.

 

My Dear Connor,

I hope your promise to pay me a visit this summer was genuine, as I would value your assistance in settling a business matter that could unfold quite messily. Your integrity would be an asset during the negotiations, and the timing of the two events is quite serendipitous, so bring your best suit with you. If you do not have an appropriate suit, fear not. My accountant can outfit you when you arrive.

Do forgive me, but I have already promised that you would attend the party. When asked who I would bring as my date, my lips spoke of their own accord, almost by reflex. Connor, I said, of the Davenport house. (That was enough to quell further inquiry about your identity, as there are several Davenports here of middling consequence. Important enough to get in but not so unique as to be interesting enough for a follow up.) It seems that I have begun to think of you as mine, in a way. My backup. My synergy. My date.

In the meantime, there is no shortage of hands that would hold mine in Nouvelle Orleans, although very few that I could solicit without signaling false intentions. I suppose I will have to settle for comforting myself tonight, in lieu of anyone to hold it for me. I have grown used to holding myself throughout my years, which is quite efficient but not very satisfying. How do you fare, dearest Connor? Are you holding yourself tonight? Do you satisfy yourself?

Yours in satisfaction,  
Aveline Passereaux, 28 May 1778

 

Aveline--

My captain's blues are always much worse for wear on the return, so you will have to dress me yourself. I defer to your judgement in this matter.

I will meet with my father to argue for an alliance in the days ahead, an alliance that my mentor finds ill conceived. I would value your input, but unfortunately it cannot wait until I return. I have to act now, on my own counsel, like I always do. This business will keep me busy, but the Aquila leaves in two weeks. I may arrive in New Orleans before this letter does.

Your comment about me being yours is not offensive, but it also doesn't make much sense to me. I am so consumed by my causes that I often feel like I do not even belong to myself, so I fail to see how I could belong to another. Because of this, I am not a man who has much time to realize that he is unsatisfied.

But I do hold myself tonight. Quickly and silently, with an eye to the stars. I do not require satisfaction often, but when the need of it creeps up on me with the cold, quiet night, it is your memory that brings the heat.

Connor  
R.

 

_June 14, 1778_  
_Davenport Homestead_

Connor put his pen down and carefully folded the piece of paper into thirds, creasing the edges and placing it with a stack of correspondence at the edge of his desk. Next to where he sat, his bedroom window was open to the warm June night, which was slightly muggy and full of the sound of crickets, but his bones still felt a chill that summers and blankets couldn't displace, a chill that had crept into his body during countless nights spent in snow-covered trees or on the frozen ground on the frontier, nights like the one he spent with Aveline, but without another warm body to keep the chill at bay.

He planted his feet firmly on the floor and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking with his shifting weight as he stretched his arms over his head, working out his muscles and gearing up for the last comfortable sleep he would have in a while, probably until New Orleans. Tomorrow he was meeting his father at Valley Forge, and presumably he'd meet up with the Aquila straight after. He wouldn't see a real bed again until he was with Aveline, so would have to make the most of this last leisurely night.

He stood and began to undress, and the only sounds in the house were the thrumming vibrations of cricket wings and yet more creaks from the floorboards as he crossed the room, shutting his door for privacy as he shed the last of his outer clothes, now dressed only in a thin tunic and short pants. His mattress shifted and settled under him as he crawled on top of his blankets, sitting back against the wall and bringing his knees up so that he could rest his elbows on them. This was what he did when he knew his thoughts would keep him awake, because he could see both the door and the window, but he could still feel the warm softness of his bed, waiting for him to slide under the covers as soon as he was ready.

Tonight, his body was tired but his mind was lit up and buzzing with anticipatory tension, something that occasionally happened prior to a mission. It was a weary and surreal combination, the kind of mental state that sometimes saw him take uncharacteristic turns of thought. 

For now, he leaned forward, clasping one wrist in the other hand and resting his forehead on his arm, looking down at the blanket between his thighs instead of at the closed door or the sky through the window. His mind raced with thoughts, about what he was going to say to his father, about whether Achilles was right about the futility of an alliance between Templars and Assassins, about how he was going to try his hardest to make it happen anyway. He thought about Aveline assassinating her Templar stepmother, wondering if he wasn't fated for a similar outcome in his dealings with Haytham, and about the content of her letters, charming and forward and full of substance, loquacious and fanciful in a way that he could appreciate but couldn't match. He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly, feeling his head alternate between lightness and heaviness with it, feeling his joints ache and throb in the margins of his consciousness, the lingering ghosts of missions past.

He also felt his erection resting between his leg and the fabric of his cotton pants, which was a rare but not unwelcome visitor to this bedroom. It throbbed too, catching him in an unusually pensive mood while also bone tired and in possession of a moment to spare for thoughts about what it might be like to be a little less alone. He allowed himself to feel the desire to have Aveline here with him tonight, to speak with her in person about their shared experiences and express to her his uncertainty, to listen to the story of what happened with her stepmother and watch her face as she speaks, her lips pressing together and pursing before parting again--her full, soft lips that had kissed him, once.

After a few more deep breaths of rapidly cooling night air, he sat up straight and rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes and crossing his legs under him. To a casual observer, he might have been meditating, if not for the fact that he had grabbed his erection through his pants and held it in place with the weight of his hand. Perhaps meditation wasn't too divorced from the truth, since he was focusing his thoughts and energy on this sensation. If he was going to take a side trip down a painful road that he seldom let himself visit, he might as well be thorough and efficient about it.

In his eagle's eye, he saw the two of them in the tree, Aveline and himself cuddling for warmth on the unsteady boards of the hunting perch under a big silver moon, just light enough for him to see her face. The vision--and it _was_ a vision, not a memory--was dark and hazy, like so many of his visions like this often were, but this one was also fundamentally different. It wasn't showing him what had happened, but rather what might have happened if he hadn't balked at her touch.

"May I, s'il vous plaît?" she asked upon rolling over to face him, placing her hand on his abdomen with her fingers pointing down at the source of his nonverbal expression of desire. She looked up into his eyes, her face full of the steady confidence of experience, but her body completely still, waiting for permission to touch him where she really wanted to.

Instead of flinching, he nodded, clearing his throat before whispering a hoarse "Yes," and then "please." He said the words out loud in his bedroom, asking the eagle vision Aveline to touch him at the same time that he reached under the waistband of his pants and held himself, just like he promised to do in his letter. The air was unpleasantly sweaty in his pants, so he kicked them off and spread his legs out on the bed, letting the breeze from the window cool him down and tickle his leg hair in waves, almost like he was being touched by the vision of her, dragging her fingers over his thighs before rubbing her palm on him where he currently held himself in his fist.

In the vision, he was too tense to move, his core muscles holding his whole body tight and still while she took him in her hand and squeezed lightly, getting him to exert a hot, stifled breath that fogged up and rose into the night. She laughed, and it was a small, kind chuckle that lit up her face and softened her eyes. "Relax, Connor. This is convivial congress, not a leap of faith."

Her mood was was contagious, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. His face relaxed of its own accord when he chuckled too, short and gruff because she was definitely still squeezing one of his vulnerable places. "Those are easy words from someone who is not being checked for ripeness."

She sucked her bottom lip through her teeth as she began to pull on him, stroking him until his body responded by getting harder and forcing him to exhale again. "Not completely ripe, no, but you're getting there. Have some faith, trust the fall. I shouldn't have to tell you this much." She brought her other hand up to his face and stroked his cheekbone with her thumb, grazing it over his scar. He watched her stare not into his eyes but somewhere else on his face--perhaps his nose or mouth--before kissing him, soft at first but growing in insistence as they found the common ground between their kissing styles, adjusting and recalibrating to each other. Her breath was hot on his face, and his own breath grew in urgency here in his bed as he tugged on himself, attempting to feel a ghost of her body pressing into him.

The unlucky thing about eagle vision was that it could only show so much, and that was all that the vision gave him, leaving him unsatisfied with her hand between his legs and a sloppy kiss on his mouth. He had to continue in imagination only, which was more random and impressionistic than eagle vision, less a narrative and more a free-floating association of sensations. He pieced together a fantasy of her, broken images of her sitting on him, riding him with her hips grinding forward and back like he had seen her move on her horse, grabbing at his chest with her short, neat fingernails while her braids swayed above his face.

He didn't last long--he never lasted very long, because out of necessity he often put off letting himself feel his natural arousal response until his body was so full of it that he couldn't ignore it any longer--but before he came, the fantasy switched, very briefly, to a memory of kissing someone else in a pile of leaves. The smell of petrichor and the mildly sweet scent of rotting leaves filled his nose, and he felt the more substantial weight of his old friend underneath him. Connor kissed Kanen'tó:kon fervently, less practiced and with the vigor of a boy who had just learned what his mouth could be used for, grinding over their clothes against Kanen'tó:kon's soft lap until his friend pulled away and moaned his name, a panicked expression on his face.

Back in his bed, Connor tried not to let this memory be what made him come, but it wasn't exactly something he could control. The orgasm came anyway, and he struggled to keep silent, carefully controlling his breaths so that they were little more than soft pants in the quiet room. His face pulled into a grimace as it rocked over him and he came on his clenched stomach, remembering the sticky warmth of bringing Kanen'tó:kon to a surprise ending under his lap so many years ago, back when he was just Ratonhnhaké:ton, before he had left everyone he had ever known to take a new name and symbolically separate himself from his people, from his best friend, in order to keep them safe.

It left him feeling more sick to his stomach than satisfied, made ill by the weight of the consequences of his choices. Missed opportunities at personal romantic and sexual satisfaction were a small price to pay for the things he was fighting for, and he would never amend any of the choices he had made in that regard, but it didn't make him feel any less alone during these quiet, uncomfortable moments with himself.

He sighed deeply, sliding down the bed until he was lying on his back, and put his hands under his head. His come began to dry, tacky and itchy on his stomach, as he stared at the ceiling and tried not to think of Aveline or Kanen'tó:kon or Weems or his father or Achilles or Washington or Lee or anyone. He cleared his mind, emptying it until there was nothing left but the crickets outside his window and the slow tide of his chest rising and falling with each breath, until eventually he fell asleep.

Maybe he would visit Kanatahséton soon. It had been too long, and there were faces he needed to see.

**Author's Note:**

> So. I reinstalled Scrivener on my new computer after a few years of not having it, and when I finally navigated to my project that I had saved on Dropbox, I found this whole thing that I'd forgotten about!
> 
> There was supposed to be a part two, but unfortunately I will probably never write the chapter where Connor meets back up with Aveline in New Orleans, so it can be considered complete as-is.
> 
> This briefly references the events of [two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1834744) [other](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1940259) fics of mine.


End file.
